HUH?

"Simone" and "Sam" have been forced to go on the Lam, after some sloppy security work exposed them to their potential "enemies". Fortunately, they've found help through the SBPP.("Sex Bloggers Protection Program"). Follow their adventures here until its safe for them to resume their prior alter-egos.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Gulp. Yes. I was ready. But somehow the advance notice always sends a shiver down my spine that settles at the base of my balls.

After a trip to the gym, some auto maintenance and other light Saturday duties, Mistress suggested we adjourn to the bedroom, announcing to the surly teens that their parents would be taking a “nap”.

Mistress must have decided to press several of her Slave’s buttons. First she slid into those silky nude toned pantyhose with the special access passage carved into the crotch. She knows their texture can drive this Slave to distraction.

Next she donned her strap-on (the photo is from a few weeks back, but you get the picture). Menacing with promise.

She likes her Slave naked, and I obliged. Soon we were both under the sheets, me sidling against her sensuously sheathed legs, she grasping my cock with obvious purpose. Within a few minutes I was begging to fuck her ….but, of course, she laughed me off.

“Slave, you know who will be doing the fucking ….”

I was fully prepared to submit.

But just as were preparing for the main event, the text on Mistress’s cell chimed. Mine too. It was surly teen number 2, demanding an immediate ride to a friend’s house. Argh. (Why does a teen text her parents from down the hall, rather than walk a few short steps and knock on the door? Maybe under those circumstances one can’t complain.)

Being a pushover, I obliged. Though it was literally painful to pry Mistress’s warm fingers from my swollen appendage. I slid into a pair of jeans, and was soon off into the cold Midwestern air for driving duty.

15 minutes later I returned. Fortunately, Mistress had not found an alternative “victim”, and was still there, under the warm covers, tending to internet duties on her laptop. I was glad not to have been replaced.

It did not take long for Mistress’s skilled attentions, and my own roving mouth and fingers, to put us back in the same crazed state we had created for one another before that damn text chime.

Mistress directed me to assume the proper position.

With my Ass plumped up for her, she found her target and plunged in, filling me with her hard plastic tool. My firm, desperate cock throbbed against the pillow beneath me as Mistress exercised her powers, reducing her Slave to a panting, whimpering receptacle.

Maybe I was distracted in my own little sub space, but it seemed that Mistress’s quivering explosion crept up on her quickly, as she suddenly bucked against me, losing the rhythm of her penetrating strokes, her nails digging into my shoulders as she moaned in her pleasure.

“That’s enough for now Slave.”

She rose, leaving her apparatus on the bathroom floor for Slave to attend to later. I remained spread out on the bed, breathing hard, in the strange state of semi-shock I find after these sessions.

She commanded me to insert my little probe, so I struggled up from the sheets sticking to my body, and complied. My ass was open and ready.

Returning to the bed, my cock full and ready for her, Mistress lay back, and helped me find the little opening in her panty hose so that I could fuck her properly.

She was still in need, but now it was my time to do the work. And I was happy to clock in. In these tough economic times, it’s crazy to pass up a little overtime on a Saturday afternoon.

Gulp. Yes. I was ready. But somehow the advance notice always sends a shiver down my spine that settles at the base of my balls.

After a trip to the gym, some auto maintenance and other light Saturday duties, Mistress suggested we adjourn to the bedroom, announcing to the surly teens that their parents would be taking a “nap”.

Mistress must have decided to press several of her Slave’s buttons. First she slid into those silky nude toned pantyhose with the special access passage carved into the crotch. She knows their texture can drive this Slave to distraction.

Next she donned her strap-on (the photo is from a few weeks back, but you get the picture). Menacing with promise.

She likes her Slave naked, and I obliged. Soon we were both under the sheets, me sidling against her sensuously sheathed legs, she grasping my cock with obvious purpose. Within a few minutes I was begging to fuck her ….but, of course, she laughed me off.

“Slave, you know who will be doing the fucking ….”

I was fully prepared to submit.

But just as were preparing for the main event, the text on Mistress’s cell chimed. Mine too. It was surly teen number 2, demanding an immediate ride to a friend’s house. Argh. (Why does a teen text her parents from down the hall, rather than walk a few short steps and knock on the door? Maybe under those circumstances one can’t complain.)

Being a pushover, I obliged. Though it was literally painful to pry Mistress’s warm fingers from my swollen appendage. I slid into a pair of jeans, and was soon off into the cold Midwestern air for driving duty.

15 minutes later I returned. Fortunately, Mistress had not found an alternative “victim”, and was still there, under the warm covers, tending to internet duties on her laptop. I was glad not to have been replaced.

It did not take long for Mistress’s skilled attentions, and my own roving mouth and fingers, to put us back in the same crazed state we had created for one another before that damn text chime.

Mistress directed me to assume the proper position.

With my Ass plumped up for her, she found her target and plunged in, filling me with her hard plastic tool. My firm, desperate cock throbbed against the pillow beneath me as Mistress exercised her powers, reducing her Slave to a panting, whimpering receptacle.

Maybe I was distracted in my own little sub space, but it seemed that Mistress’s quivering explosion crept up on her quickly, as she suddenly bucked against me, losing the rhythm of her penetrating strokes, her nails digging into my shoulders as she moaned in her pleasure.

“That’s enough for now Slave.”

She rose, leaving her apparatus on the bathroom floor for Slave to attend to later. I remained spread out on the bed, breathing hard, in the strange state of semi-shock I find after these sessions.

She commanded me to insert my little probe, so I struggled up from the sheets sticking to my body, and complied. My ass was open and ready.

Returning to the bed, my cock full and ready for her, Mistress lay back, and helped me find the little opening in her panty hose so that I could fuck her properly.

She was still in need, but now it was my time to do the work. And I was happy to clock in. In these tough economic times, it’s crazy to pass up a little overtime on a Saturday afternoon.

Gulp. Yes. I was ready. But somehow the advance notice always sends a shiver down my spine that settles at the base of my balls.

After a trip to the gym, some auto maintenance and other light Saturday duties, Mistress suggested we adjourn to the bedroom, announcing to the surly teens that their parents would be taking a “nap”.

Mistress must have decided to press several of her Slave’s buttons. First she slid into those silky nude toned pantyhose with the special access passage carved into the crotch. She knows their texture can drive this Slave to distraction.

Next she donned her strap-on (the photo is from a few weeks back, but you get the picture). Menacing with promise.

She likes her Slave naked, and I obliged. Soon we were both under the sheets, me sidling against her sensuously sheathed legs, she grasping my cock with obvious purpose. Within a few minutes I was begging to fuck her ….but, of course, she laughed me off.

“Slave, you know who will be doing the fucking ….”

I was fully prepared to submit.

But just as were preparing for the main event, the text on Mistress’s cell chimed. Mine too. It was surly teen number 2, demanding an immediate ride to a friend’s house. Argh. (Why does a teen text her parents from down the hall, rather than walk a few short steps and knock on the door? Maybe under those circumstances one can’t complain.)

Being a pushover, I obliged. Though it was literally painful to pry Mistress’s warm fingers from my swollen appendage. I slid into a pair of jeans, and was soon off into the cold Midwestern air for driving duty.

15 minutes later I returned. Fortunately, Mistress had not found an alternative “victim”, and was still there, under the warm covers, tending to internet duties on her laptop. I was glad not to have been replaced.

It did not take long for Mistress’s skilled attentions, and my own roving mouth and fingers, to put us back in the same crazed state we had created for one another before that damn text chime.

Mistress directed me to assume the proper position.

With my Ass plumped up for her, she found her target and plunged in, filling me with her hard plastic tool. My firm, desperate cock throbbed against the pillow beneath me as Mistress exercised her powers, reducing her Slave to a panting, whimpering receptacle.

Maybe I was distracted in my own little sub space, but it seemed that Mistress’s quivering explosion crept up on her quickly, as she suddenly bucked against me, losing the rhythm of her penetrating strokes, her nails digging into my shoulders as she moaned in her pleasure.

“That’s enough for now Slave.”

She rose, leaving her apparatus on the bathroom floor for Slave to attend to later. I remained spread out on the bed, breathing hard, in the strange state of semi-shock I find after these sessions.

She commanded me to insert my little probe, so I struggled up from the sheets sticking to my body, and complied. My ass was open and ready.

Returning to the bed, my cock full and ready for her, Mistress lay back, and helped me find the little opening in her panty hose so that I could fuck her properly.

She was still in need, but now it was my time to do the work. And I was happy to clock in. In these tough economic times, it’s crazy to pass up a little overtime on a Saturday afternoon.

Gulp. Yes. I was ready. But somehow the advance notice always sends a shiver down my spine that settles at the base of my balls.

After a trip to the gym, some auto maintenance and other light Saturday duties, Mistress suggested we adjourn to the bedroom, announcing to the surly teens that their parents would be taking a “nap”.

Mistress must have decided to press several of her Slave’s buttons. First she slid into those silky nude toned pantyhose with the special access passage carved into the crotch. She knows their texture can drive this Slave to distraction.

Next she donned her strap-on (the photo is from a few weeks back, but you get the picture). Menacing with promise.

She likes her Slave naked, and I obliged. Soon we were both under the sheets, me sidling against her sensuously sheathed legs, she grasping my cock with obvious purpose. Within a few minutes I was begging to fuck her ….but, of course, she laughed me off.

“Slave, you know who will be doing the fucking ….”

I was fully prepared to submit.

But just as were preparing for the main event, the text on Mistress’s cell chimed. Mine too. It was surly teen number 2, demanding an immediate ride to a friend’s house. Argh. (Why does a teen text her parents from down the hall, rather than walk a few short steps and knock on the door? Maybe under those circumstances one can’t complain.)

Being a pushover, I obliged. Though it was literally painful to pry Mistress’s warm fingers from my swollen appendage. I slid into a pair of jeans, and was soon off into the cold Midwestern air for driving duty.

15 minutes later I returned. Fortunately, Mistress had not found an alternative “victim”, and was still there, under the warm covers, tending to internet duties on her laptop. I was glad not to have been replaced.

It did not take long for Mistress’s skilled attentions, and my own roving mouth and fingers, to put us back in the same crazed state we had created for one another before that damn text chime.

Mistress directed me to assume the proper position.

With my Ass plumped up for her, she found her target and plunged in, filling me with her hard plastic tool. My firm, desperate cock throbbed against the pillow beneath me as Mistress exercised her powers, reducing her Slave to a panting, whimpering receptacle.

Maybe I was distracted in my own little sub space, but it seemed that Mistress’s quivering explosion crept up on her quickly, as she suddenly bucked against me, losing the rhythm of her penetrating strokes, her nails digging into my shoulders as she moaned in her pleasure.

“That’s enough for now Slave.”

She rose, leaving her apparatus on the bathroom floor for Slave to attend to later. I remained spread out on the bed, breathing hard, in the strange state of semi-shock I find after these sessions.

She commanded me to insert my little probe, so I struggled up from the sheets sticking to my body, and complied. My ass was open and ready.

Returning to the bed, my cock full and ready for her, Mistress lay back, and helped me find the little opening in her panty hose so that I could fuck her properly.

She was still in need, but now it was my time to do the work. And I was happy to clock in. In these tough economic times, it’s crazy to pass up a little overtime on a Saturday afternoon.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Mick and Molly broke from our routine yesterday by posting a little “make believe” story derived from Mistress’s fantasies of exploring the sub side with a part-time Dom.

I was not sure how Mistress would react to my story. But the results were quite pleasing. Of course, Mick enjoys the smutty comment and emails he received suggesting that the erotic heat my story generated was felt several states away. Barack spoke about alternative energy sources in his SOTU. I am glad to have played my small part.

But this blog’s primary target is Mistress Molly. And my fictional cruise missle seemed to hit its target. I liked the flush on her face and the not so subtle squirm that seemed to spread through her body as she read on to the end, first my original work, then the revised version, with a somewhat expanded ending, posted later on Friday.

After her second read, when I was under the covers, toying with her through those clingingly damp black tights(see the helpful illustration), Mistress told me that she wants to find out what happens next. And I promised to expand on the story of Mistress’s rendezvous with Robert sometime soon.

Question: should the continuation be a first hand narrative, or the story of what happened as recounted by Molly to Mick as he kneels between her legs later that night? Or both?

As you might imagine, the little stories and speculations we sometimes share tend to quicken our desires for one another all the more. As if that’s possible.

An example: on Thursday Molly received an email on her “FetLife” posting (under MollyCollins if anyone wants to check it out) from a dominant fellow who lives on the other side of the River with his fetching Slave / wife. “I am intrigued by the cuckold lifestyle”, he told her, “It wouldn’t work for me because I am sexually dominant. But the idea of tormenting some poor husband while his wife is made to serve is interesting.”

Yes. Very interesting. Not long after we discussed his message, and Molly’s desire to respond and meet this couple for drinks sometime soon, Slave was buried between Mistress’s legs, and she was working through a series of mini-explosions as she pressed her self against me as I sucked her oh so responsive parts tightly between my teeth and lips.

Molly then gave me permission to fuck her, and asked me to describe my speculations on how a meeting with this couple would go.I will spare you the long version, but it involved Mistress bound, on her knees, being required to served both this assertive Master and his lovely Slave. That thought had Mistress demanding to be on top, so we reversed positions and she worked her self hard and long against me to the type of moaning crashing explosion that leaves her shaking and teary eyed. That’s my favorite kind.

Yesterday Mistress visited me again in my office, after a morning and lunch hour of some dreary meetings with one of her clients. She seemed eager for worship and I was happy to oblige. It was cold here, and both Slave and Mistress needed some warming up. As I prepared her throne, the talk turned again to my story about her and the fictional “Robert”. Those thoughts seemed to accelerate both of us, and as I knelt between her legs and tasted her through those black tights, I had the now familiar sensation of a hardening cock checked by the cold steel of the cage she had locked for me that morning.

Once Mistress’s tights were pulled down to provide my mouth with more direct access, Mistress wound her hands into what is left of my hair (there is some in back) and pulled me fiercely to her. The diabolically contented, look on her face from my perspective on my knees after she explodes for me in my office may be my only reward….but well worth the wet face and that time on my old, achy knees. Another day at the office.

Mick and Molly broke from our routine yesterday by posting a little “make believe” story derived from Mistress’s fantasies of exploring the sub side with a part-time Dom.

I was not sure how Mistress would react to my story. But the results were quite pleasing. Of course, Mick enjoys the smutty comment and emails he received suggesting that the erotic heat my story generated was felt several states away. Barack spoke about alternative energy sources in his SOTU. I am glad to have played my small part.

But this blog’s primary target is Mistress Molly. And my fictional cruise missle seemed to hit its target. I liked the flush on her face and the not so subtle squirm that seemed to spread through her body as she read on to the end, first my original work, then the revised version, with a somewhat expanded ending, posted later on Friday.

After her second read, when I was under the covers, toying with her through those clingingly damp black tights(see the helpful illustration), Mistress told me that she wants to find out what happens next. And I promised to expand on the story of Mistress’s rendezvous with Robert sometime soon.

Question: should the continuation be a first hand narrative, or the story of what happened as recounted by Molly to Mick as he kneels between her legs later that night? Or both?

As you might imagine, the little stories and speculations we sometimes share tend to quicken our desires for one another all the more. As if that’s possible.

An example: on Thursday Molly received an email on her “FetLife” posting (under MollyCollins if anyone wants to check it out) from a dominant fellow who lives on the other side of the River with his fetching Slave / wife. “I am intrigued by the cuckold lifestyle”, he told her, “It wouldn’t work for me because I am sexually dominant. But the idea of tormenting some poor husband while his wife is made to serve is interesting.”

Yes. Very interesting. Not long after we discussed his message, and Molly’s desire to respond and meet this couple for drinks sometime soon, Slave was buried between Mistress’s legs, and she was working through a series of mini-explosions as she pressed her self against me as I sucked her oh so responsive parts tightly between my teeth and lips.

Molly then gave me permission to fuck her, and asked me to describe my speculations on how a meeting with this couple would go.I will spare you the long version, but it involved Mistress bound, on her knees, being required to served both this assertive Master and his lovely Slave. That thought had Mistress demanding to be on top, so we reversed positions and she worked her self hard and long against me to the type of moaning crashing explosion that leaves her shaking and teary eyed. That’s my favorite kind.

Yesterday Mistress visited me again in my office, after a morning and lunch hour of some dreary meetings with one of her clients. She seemed eager for worship and I was happy to oblige. It was cold here, and both Slave and Mistress needed some warming up. As I prepared her throne, the talk turned again to my story about her and the fictional “Robert”. Those thoughts seemed to accelerate both of us, and as I knelt between her legs and tasted her through those black tights, I had the now familiar sensation of a hardening cock checked by the cold steel of the cage she had locked for me that morning.

Once Mistress’s tights were pulled down to provide my mouth with more direct access, Mistress wound her hands into what is left of my hair (there is some in back) and pulled me fiercely to her. The diabolically contented, look on her face from my perspective on my knees after she explodes for me in my office may be my only reward….but well worth the wet face and that time on my old, achy knees. Another day at the office.

Mick and Molly broke from our routine yesterday by posting a little “make believe” story derived from Mistress’s fantasies of exploring the sub side with a part-time Dom.

I was not sure how Mistress would react to my story. But the results were quite pleasing. Of course, Mick enjoys the smutty comment and emails he received suggesting that the erotic heat my story generated was felt several states away. Barack spoke about alternative energy sources in his SOTU. I am glad to have played my small part.

But this blog’s primary target is Mistress Molly. And my fictional cruise missle seemed to hit its target. I liked the flush on her face and the not so subtle squirm that seemed to spread through her body as she read on to the end, first my original work, then the revised version, with a somewhat expanded ending, posted later on Friday.

After her second read, when I was under the covers, toying with her through those clingingly damp black tights(see the helpful illustration), Mistress told me that she wants to find out what happens next. And I promised to expand on the story of Mistress’s rendezvous with Robert sometime soon.

Question: should the continuation be a first hand narrative, or the story of what happened as recounted by Molly to Mick as he kneels between her legs later that night? Or both?

As you might imagine, the little stories and speculations we sometimes share tend to quicken our desires for one another all the more. As if that’s possible.

An example: on Thursday Molly received an email on her “FetLife” posting (under MollyCollins if anyone wants to check it out) from a dominant fellow who lives on the other side of the River with his fetching Slave / wife. “I am intrigued by the cuckold lifestyle”, he told her, “It wouldn’t work for me because I am sexually dominant. But the idea of tormenting some poor husband while his wife is made to serve is interesting.”

Yes. Very interesting. Not long after we discussed his message, and Molly’s desire to respond and meet this couple for drinks sometime soon, Slave was buried between Mistress’s legs, and she was working through a series of mini-explosions as she pressed her self against me as I sucked her oh so responsive parts tightly between my teeth and lips.

Molly then gave me permission to fuck her, and asked me to describe my speculations on how a meeting with this couple would go.I will spare you the long version, but it involved Mistress bound, on her knees, being required to served both this assertive Master and his lovely Slave. That thought had Mistress demanding to be on top, so we reversed positions and she worked her self hard and long against me to the type of moaning crashing explosion that leaves her shaking and teary eyed. That’s my favorite kind.

Yesterday Mistress visited me again in my office, after a morning and lunch hour of some dreary meetings with one of her clients. She seemed eager for worship and I was happy to oblige. It was cold here, and both Slave and Mistress needed some warming up. As I prepared her throne, the talk turned again to my story about her and the fictional “Robert”. Those thoughts seemed to accelerate both of us, and as I knelt between her legs and tasted her through those black tights, I had the now familiar sensation of a hardening cock checked by the cold steel of the cage she had locked for me that morning.

Once Mistress’s tights were pulled down to provide my mouth with more direct access, Mistress wound her hands into what is left of my hair (there is some in back) and pulled me fiercely to her. The diabolically contented, look on her face from my perspective on my knees after she explodes for me in my office may be my only reward….but well worth the wet face and that time on my old, achy knees. Another day at the office.

Mick and Molly broke from our routine yesterday by posting a little “make believe” story derived from Mistress’s fantasies of exploring the sub side with a part-time Dom.

I was not sure how Mistress would react to my story. But the results were quite pleasing. Of course, Mick enjoys the smutty comment and emails he received suggesting that the erotic heat my story generated was felt several states away. Barack spoke about alternative energy sources in his SOTU. I am glad to have played my small part.

But this blog’s primary target is Mistress Molly. And my fictional cruise missle seemed to hit its target. I liked the flush on her face and the not so subtle squirm that seemed to spread through her body as she read on to the end, first my original work, then the revised version, with a somewhat expanded ending, posted later on Friday.

After her second read, when I was under the covers, toying with her through those clingingly damp black tights(see the helpful illustration), Mistress told me that she wants to find out what happens next. And I promised to expand on the story of Mistress’s rendezvous with Robert sometime soon.

Question: should the continuation be a first hand narrative, or the story of what happened as recounted by Molly to Mick as he kneels between her legs later that night? Or both?

As you might imagine, the little stories and speculations we sometimes share tend to quicken our desires for one another all the more. As if that’s possible.

An example: on Thursday Molly received an email on her “FetLife” posting (under MollyCollins if anyone wants to check it out) from a dominant fellow who lives on the other side of the River with his fetching Slave / wife. “I am intrigued by the cuckold lifestyle”, he told her, “It wouldn’t work for me because I am sexually dominant. But the idea of tormenting some poor husband while his wife is made to serve is interesting.”

Yes. Very interesting. Not long after we discussed his message, and Molly’s desire to respond and meet this couple for drinks sometime soon, Slave was buried between Mistress’s legs, and she was working through a series of mini-explosions as she pressed her self against me as I sucked her oh so responsive parts tightly between my teeth and lips.

Molly then gave me permission to fuck her, and asked me to describe my speculations on how a meeting with this couple would go.I will spare you the long version, but it involved Mistress bound, on her knees, being required to served both this assertive Master and his lovely Slave. That thought had Mistress demanding to be on top, so we reversed positions and she worked her self hard and long against me to the type of moaning crashing explosion that leaves her shaking and teary eyed. That’s my favorite kind.

Yesterday Mistress visited me again in my office, after a morning and lunch hour of some dreary meetings with one of her clients. She seemed eager for worship and I was happy to oblige. It was cold here, and both Slave and Mistress needed some warming up. As I prepared her throne, the talk turned again to my story about her and the fictional “Robert”. Those thoughts seemed to accelerate both of us, and as I knelt between her legs and tasted her through those black tights, I had the now familiar sensation of a hardening cock checked by the cold steel of the cage she had locked for me that morning.

Once Mistress’s tights were pulled down to provide my mouth with more direct access, Mistress wound her hands into what is left of my hair (there is some in back) and pulled me fiercely to her. The diabolically contented, look on her face from my perspective on my knees after she explodes for me in my office may be my only reward….but well worth the wet face and that time on my old, achy knees. Another day at the office.

Friday, January 29, 2010

(A break from our usual programming. A story. It's made up stuff. The names and places are figments of imagination....aren't they?)

The cell trilled on my desk. I was across the room, pensive. Looking out across the City, from my 25th floor perch.

Of course, I knew Mistress’s ring. But why? She had just left only 15 minutes earlier. I could still taste her on my lips and tongue.

And she was a sight. Smokey black stockings. A black suit just shorter than appropriate for a workday in River City. If she leaned over those stocking tops would catch a few wandering eyes. When I raised an eye at her outfit, she confessed she had been instructed to dress “slutty”. So she had.

I lurched for the phone, knowing she was just across the street. Didn’t he show? The thought of an aborted “mission” with her new “Sir” sent an agonizing mixture of relief and disappointment through me.

Avoiding an answer, she murmured, “You know where we are. Come over. Now. Please.” I couldn’t read her voice. Not scared. Embarassed? Maybe. He must have been sitting right next to her.

“Yes, Mistress”, I mumbled, but the connection was already closed. I had my orders.

I slipped on my jacket. Pocketed the phone, hustled to the elevator bank. I nodded off greetings from the regulars behind the security desk, no time to chat, then spun through the doors and jaywalked across the street to the little boutique hotel where I knew I would find her.

I spotted them in a booth in the Bar area, relatively empty at mid day, near the back. Discrete.

He was as she had described. A bit younger than me. Fit looking. Heavy wool blue blazer and tie. Costumed as you would expect a tenured faculty member at one of those small Colleges spread through the heartland. His was not far from our town.

They had stumbled upon one another over the internet. She had decided to exploit her rights under our contract – the right to take other lovers – and he was offering to scratch that itch she had to walk on the submissive side for a change.

I had asked only for the right to know what was going on. “Don’t leave me wondering”, I had asked. And in truth she knew that sharing some of the details of her budding flirtation seemed to throw fuel on our already incendiary sex life.

Mistress had shown me some of their steamy texts. Their sordid emails. Told me about some of the calls. How he persuaded her to touch herself. Then denied her “permission”, until she had to beg. I could tell she was hooked. And he was reeling her in slowly, diabolically.

They had met once before. An interview, she called it. He was a gentleman. She must have passed muster. But this was the day. He expected her to submit. “Completely”, he had required. She agreed. Could not do anything else by then. She was lost.

But both of us were anxious. What did he mean by “complete” submission. She had some ideas about what to expect. He was plain about his own needs. She would be in her knees. Bound. Require to Beg. There were some understandings between them. But still…

They sat opposite one another. I could tell she was uneasy. Squirmy in her seat. As I approached, they rose. “Mick, this is Robert”, she said, avoiding eye contact. We shook hands briefly. Hard to touch him, knowing he would soon be touching her. And that she wanted that touch.

He indicated I should sit down, next to my Mistress. My hand draped under the table over her lap, reaching for and clutching her hand. Hard. She seemed as wired as I was.

“So you’re Molly’s Slave?

“That’s me”. It’s not something I had publicly admitted to anyone in person before. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. The humiliation had begin.

“She’s agreed to be mine, at least when we can arrange to be together. just like you are her Slave, she is now mine. Isn’t that right, Molly.”

Molly nodded. He looked at her, a flash in his eyes.

“Yes, Sir. I will be – am - your Slave.”

“That’s better. And Mick, you have no problem with that do you?”

“That’s her right, under our contract.”

“Of course it is”. He smiled. Smug asshole. I didn’t like him. Not that it mattered.

“Are you wearing your cage today, Mick?”

Another blush of humiliation crossed my face.

“Yes, it’s on.”

“Where’s the key, Molly?”

“At home.”

“Good. …. Well it’s good to know we all understand one another. Molly, nowcome sit next to me here.”, he said, patting the space next to him in the leather upholstered booth.

It took a moment for his order to sink in. I slowly loosened my grip on her hand. As Molly rose, I caught a glimpse of those magnificent legs and the tops of her stockings. Argh. Why had I agreed to this, to the contract?

She slid in beside him and he quickly closed the space between them. I could see his hand moving to her lap, but could not see exactly where he had placed it. There was the rustle of her stockings pressing against one another.

“Molly is a dream Mick. Quite a girl. I am lucky to have her, don’t you think?”

“Of course. I love her. She’s everything to me.”

‘Well I promise to take good care of her….and train her well. She might learn a few things to make her a better Mistress. Though probably more demanding. Stricter. She is pretty easy on you, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. “

“Well that may change. Slave’s need a firm hand. Don’t you agree, pet?”

By now I could sense his hands moving on Mistress’s lap, and her breathing seemed a bit more labored.

“Yes…Sir.” She gasped. Startled by something, no doubt that hand hidden from me.

“Spread your legs a bit, Molly”, he instructed.

She looked at him, embarrassed. Eyes pleading.

“No. Not hear, Not in front of him.” She seemed sad, desperate.

“Didn’t you agree to submit…. completely?”

His hand had not pulled away, but held its position.

“Yes”, she conceded. Surrendering.

I could tell Mistress was aroused, almost broken. She shifted in her seat. I knew her legs were opening. I imagined how his fingers were caressing her. Taking her down. Then I heard her stifled gasp, the sound she makes when she is oh so very close. Her eyes were closed, head pressed against the back of the booth.

(A break from our usual programming. A story. It's made up stuff. The names and places are figments of imagination....aren't they?)

The cell trilled on my desk. I was across the room, pensive. Looking out across the City, from my 25th floor perch.

Of course, I knew Mistress’s ring. But why? She had just left only 15 minutes earlier. I could still taste her on my lips and tongue.

And she was a sight. Smokey black stockings. A black suit just shorter than appropriate for a workday in River City. If she leaned over those stocking tops would catch a few wandering eyes. When I raised an eye at her outfit, she confessed she had been instructed to dress “slutty”. So she had.

I lurched for the phone, knowing she was just across the street. Didn’t he show? The thought of an aborted “mission” with her new “Sir” sent an agonizing mixture of relief and disappointment through me.

Avoiding an answer, she murmured, “You know where we are. Come over. Now. Please.” I couldn’t read her voice. Not scared. Embarassed? Maybe. He must have been sitting right next to her.

“Yes, Mistress”, I mumbled, but the connection was already closed. I had my orders.

I slipped on my jacket. Pocketed the phone, hustled to the elevator bank. I nodded off greetings from the regulars behind the security desk, no time to chat, then spun through the doors and jaywalked across the street to the little boutique hotel where I knew I would find her.

I spotted them in a booth in the Bar area, relatively empty at mid day, near the back. Discrete.

He was as she had described. A bit younger than me. Fit looking. Heavy wool blue blazer and tie. Costumed as you would expect a tenured faculty member at one of those small Colleges spread through the heartland. His was not far from our town.

They had stumbled upon one another over the internet. She had decided to exploit her rights under our contract – the right to take other lovers – and he was offering to scratch that itch she had to walk on the submissive side for a change.

I had asked only for the right to know what was going on. “Don’t leave me wondering”, I had asked. And in truth she knew that sharing some of the details of her budding flirtation seemed to throw fuel on our already incendiary sex life.

Mistress had shown me some of their steamy texts. Their sordid emails. Told me about some of the calls. How he persuaded her to touch herself. Then denied her “permission”, until she had to beg. I could tell she was hooked. And he was reeling her in slowly, diabolically.

They had met once before. An interview, she called it. He was a gentleman. She must have passed muster. But this was the day. He expected her to submit. “Completely”, he had required. She agreed. Could not do anything else by then. She was lost.

But both of us were anxious. What did he mean by “complete” submission. She had some ideas about what to expect. He was plain about his own needs. She would be in her knees. Bound. Require to Beg. There were some understandings between them. But still…

They sat opposite one another. I could tell she was uneasy. Squirmy in her seat. As I approached, they rose. “Mick, this is Robert”, she said, avoiding eye contact. We shook hands briefly. Hard to touch him, knowing he would soon be touching her. And that she wanted that touch.

He indicated I should sit down, next to my Mistress. My hand draped under the table over her lap, reaching for and clutching her hand. Hard. She seemed as wired as I was.

“So you’re Molly’s Slave?

“That’s me”. It’s not something I had publicly admitted to anyone in person before. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. The humiliation had begin.

“She’s agreed to be mine, at least when we can arrange to be together. just like you are her Slave, she is now mine. Isn’t that right, Molly.”

Molly nodded. He looked at her, a flash in his eyes.

“Yes, Sir. I will be – am - your Slave.”

“That’s better. And Mick, you have no problem with that do you?”

“That’s her right, under our contract.”

“Of course it is”. He smiled. Smug asshole. I didn’t like him. Not that it mattered.

“Are you wearing your cage today, Mick?”

Another blush of humiliation crossed my face.

“Yes, it’s on.”

“Where’s the key, Molly?”

“At home.”

“Good. …. Well it’s good to know we all understand one another. Molly, nowcome sit next to me here.”, he said, patting the space next to him in the leather upholstered booth.

It took a moment for his order to sink in. I slowly loosened my grip on her hand. As Molly rose, I caught a glimpse of those magnificent legs and the tops of her stockings. Argh. Why had I agreed to this, to the contract?

She slid in beside him and he quickly closed the space between them. I could see his hand moving to her lap, but could not see exactly where he had placed it. There was the rustle of her stockings pressing against one another.

“Molly is a dream Mick. Quite a girl. I am lucky to have her, don’t you think?”

“Of course. I love her. She’s everything to me.”

‘Well I promise to take good care of her….and train her well. She might learn a few things to make her a better Mistress. Though probably more demanding. Stricter. She is pretty easy on you, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. “

“Well that may change. Slave’s need a firm hand. Don’t you agree, pet?”

By now I could sense his hands moving on Mistress’s lap, and her breathing seemed a bit more labored.

“Yes…Sir.” She gasped. Startled by something, no doubt that hand hidden from me.

“Spread your legs a bit, Molly”, he instructed.

She looked at him, embarrassed. Eyes pleading.

“No. Not hear, Not in front of him.” She seemed sad, desperate.

“Didn’t you agree to submit…. completely?”

His hand had not pulled away, but held its position.

“Yes”, she conceded. Surrendering.

I could tell Mistress was aroused, almost broken. She shifted in her seat. I knew her legs were opening. I imagined how his fingers were caressing her. Taking her down. Then I heard her stifled gasp, the sound she makes when she is oh so very close. Her eyes were closed, head pressed against the back of the booth.

(A break from our usual programming. A story. It's made up stuff. The names and places are figments of imagination....aren't they?)

The cell trilled on my desk. I was across the room, pensive. Looking out across the City, from my 25th floor perch.

Of course, I knew Mistress’s ring. But why? She had just left only 15 minutes earlier. I could still taste her on my lips and tongue.

And she was a sight. Smokey black stockings. A black suit just shorter than appropriate for a workday in River City. If she leaned over those stocking tops would catch a few wandering eyes. When I raised an eye at her outfit, she confessed she had been instructed to dress “slutty”. So she had.

I lurched for the phone, knowing she was just across the street. Didn’t he show? The thought of an aborted “mission” with her new “Sir” sent an agonizing mixture of relief and disappointment through me.

Avoiding an answer, she murmured, “You know where we are. Come over. Now. Please.” I couldn’t read her voice. Not scared. Embarassed? Maybe. He must have been sitting right next to her.

“Yes, Mistress”, I mumbled, but the connection was already closed. I had my orders.

I slipped on my jacket. Pocketed the phone, hustled to the elevator bank. I nodded off greetings from the regulars behind the security desk, no time to chat, then spun through the doors and jaywalked across the street to the little boutique hotel where I knew I would find her.

I spotted them in a booth in the Bar area, relatively empty at mid day, near the back. Discrete.

He was as she had described. A bit younger than me. Fit looking. Heavy wool blue blazer and tie. Costumed as you would expect a tenured faculty member at one of those small Colleges spread through the heartland. His was not far from our town.

They had stumbled upon one another over the internet. She had decided to exploit her rights under our contract – the right to take other lovers – and he was offering to scratch that itch she had to walk on the submissive side for a change.

I had asked only for the right to know what was going on. “Don’t leave me wondering”, I had asked. And in truth she knew that sharing some of the details of her budding flirtation seemed to throw fuel on our already incendiary sex life.

Mistress had shown me some of their steamy texts. Their sordid emails. Told me about some of the calls. How he persuaded her to touch herself. Then denied her “permission”, until she had to beg. I could tell she was hooked. And he was reeling her in slowly, diabolically.

They had met once before. An interview, she called it. He was a gentleman. She must have passed muster. But this was the day. He expected her to submit. “Completely”, he had required. She agreed. Could not do anything else by then. She was lost.

But both of us were anxious. What did he mean by “complete” submission. She had some ideas about what to expect. He was plain about his own needs. She would be in her knees. Bound. Require to Beg. There were some understandings between them. But still…

They sat opposite one another. I could tell she was uneasy. Squirmy in her seat. As I approached, they rose. “Mick, this is Robert”, she said, avoiding eye contact. We shook hands briefly. Hard to touch him, knowing he would soon be touching her. And that she wanted that touch.

He indicated I should sit down, next to my Mistress. My hand draped under the table over her lap, reaching for and clutching her hand. Hard. She seemed as wired as I was.

“So you’re Molly’s Slave?

“That’s me”. It’s not something I had publicly admitted to anyone in person before. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. The humiliation had begin.

“She’s agreed to be mine, at least when we can arrange to be together. just like you are her Slave, she is now mine. Isn’t that right, Molly.”

Molly nodded. He looked at her, a flash in his eyes.

“Yes, Sir. I will be – am - your Slave.”

“That’s better. And Mick, you have no problem with that do you?”

“That’s her right, under our contract.”

“Of course it is”. He smiled. Smug asshole. I didn’t like him. Not that it mattered.

“Are you wearing your cage today, Mick?”

Another blush of humiliation crossed my face.

“Yes, it’s on.”

“Where’s the key, Molly?”

“At home.”

“Good. …. Well it’s good to know we all understand one another. Molly, nowcome sit next to me here.”, he said, patting the space next to him in the leather upholstered booth.

It took a moment for his order to sink in. I slowly loosened my grip on her hand. As Molly rose, I caught a glimpse of those magnificent legs and the tops of her stockings. Argh. Why had I agreed to this, to the contract?

She slid in beside him and he quickly closed the space between them. I could see his hand moving to her lap, but could not see exactly where he had placed it. There was the rustle of her stockings pressing against one another.

“Molly is a dream Mick. Quite a girl. I am lucky to have her, don’t you think?”

“Of course. I love her. She’s everything to me.”

‘Well I promise to take good care of her….and train her well. She might learn a few things to make her a better Mistress. Though probably more demanding. Stricter. She is pretty easy on you, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. “

“Well that may change. Slave’s need a firm hand. Don’t you agree, pet?”

By now I could sense his hands moving on Mistress’s lap, and her breathing seemed a bit more labored.

“Yes…Sir.” She gasped. Startled by something, no doubt that hand hidden from me.

“Spread your legs a bit, Molly”, he instructed.

She looked at him, embarrassed. Eyes pleading.

“No. Not hear, Not in front of him.” She seemed sad, desperate.

“Didn’t you agree to submit…. completely?”

His hand had not pulled away, but held its position.

“Yes”, she conceded. Surrendering.

I could tell Mistress was aroused, almost broken. She shifted in her seat. I knew her legs were opening. I imagined how his fingers were caressing her. Taking her down. Then I heard her stifled gasp, the sound she makes when she is oh so very close. Her eyes were closed, head pressed against the back of the booth.

(A break from our usual programming. A story. It's made up stuff. The names and places are figments of imagination....aren't they?)

The cell trilled on my desk. I was across the room, pensive. Looking out across the City, from my 25th floor perch.

Of course, I knew Mistress’s ring. But why? She had just left only 15 minutes earlier. I could still taste her on my lips and tongue.

And she was a sight. Smokey black stockings. A black suit just shorter than appropriate for a workday in River City. If she leaned over those stocking tops would catch a few wandering eyes. When I raised an eye at her outfit, she confessed she had been instructed to dress “slutty”. So she had.

I lurched for the phone, knowing she was just across the street. Didn’t he show? The thought of an aborted “mission” with her new “Sir” sent an agonizing mixture of relief and disappointment through me.

Avoiding an answer, she murmured, “You know where we are. Come over. Now. Please.” I couldn’t read her voice. Not scared. Embarassed? Maybe. He must have been sitting right next to her.

“Yes, Mistress”, I mumbled, but the connection was already closed. I had my orders.

I slipped on my jacket. Pocketed the phone, hustled to the elevator bank. I nodded off greetings from the regulars behind the security desk, no time to chat, then spun through the doors and jaywalked across the street to the little boutique hotel where I knew I would find her.

I spotted them in a booth in the Bar area, relatively empty at mid day, near the back. Discrete.

He was as she had described. A bit younger than me. Fit looking. Heavy wool blue blazer and tie. Costumed as you would expect a tenured faculty member at one of those small Colleges spread through the heartland. His was not far from our town.

They had stumbled upon one another over the internet. She had decided to exploit her rights under our contract – the right to take other lovers – and he was offering to scratch that itch she had to walk on the submissive side for a change.

I had asked only for the right to know what was going on. “Don’t leave me wondering”, I had asked. And in truth she knew that sharing some of the details of her budding flirtation seemed to throw fuel on our already incendiary sex life.

Mistress had shown me some of their steamy texts. Their sordid emails. Told me about some of the calls. How he persuaded her to touch herself. Then denied her “permission”, until she had to beg. I could tell she was hooked. And he was reeling her in slowly, diabolically.

They had met once before. An interview, she called it. He was a gentleman. She must have passed muster. But this was the day. He expected her to submit. “Completely”, he had required. She agreed. Could not do anything else by then. She was lost.

But both of us were anxious. What did he mean by “complete” submission. She had some ideas about what to expect. He was plain about his own needs. She would be in her knees. Bound. Require to Beg. There were some understandings between them. But still…

They sat opposite one another. I could tell she was uneasy. Squirmy in her seat. As I approached, they rose. “Mick, this is Robert”, she said, avoiding eye contact. We shook hands briefly. Hard to touch him, knowing he would soon be touching her. And that she wanted that touch.

He indicated I should sit down, next to my Mistress. My hand draped under the table over her lap, reaching for and clutching her hand. Hard. She seemed as wired as I was.

“So you’re Molly’s Slave?

“That’s me”. It’s not something I had publicly admitted to anyone in person before. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. The humiliation had begin.

“She’s agreed to be mine, at least when we can arrange to be together. just like you are her Slave, she is now mine. Isn’t that right, Molly.”

Molly nodded. He looked at her, a flash in his eyes.

“Yes, Sir. I will be – am - your Slave.”

“That’s better. And Mick, you have no problem with that do you?”

“That’s her right, under our contract.”

“Of course it is”. He smiled. Smug asshole. I didn’t like him. Not that it mattered.

“Are you wearing your cage today, Mick?”

Another blush of humiliation crossed my face.

“Yes, it’s on.”

“Where’s the key, Molly?”

“At home.”

“Good. …. Well it’s good to know we all understand one another. Molly, nowcome sit next to me here.”, he said, patting the space next to him in the leather upholstered booth.

It took a moment for his order to sink in. I slowly loosened my grip on her hand. As Molly rose, I caught a glimpse of those magnificent legs and the tops of her stockings. Argh. Why had I agreed to this, to the contract?

She slid in beside him and he quickly closed the space between them. I could see his hand moving to her lap, but could not see exactly where he had placed it. There was the rustle of her stockings pressing against one another.

“Molly is a dream Mick. Quite a girl. I am lucky to have her, don’t you think?”

“Of course. I love her. She’s everything to me.”

‘Well I promise to take good care of her….and train her well. She might learn a few things to make her a better Mistress. Though probably more demanding. Stricter. She is pretty easy on you, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. “

“Well that may change. Slave’s need a firm hand. Don’t you agree, pet?”

By now I could sense his hands moving on Mistress’s lap, and her breathing seemed a bit more labored.

“Yes…Sir.” She gasped. Startled by something, no doubt that hand hidden from me.

“Spread your legs a bit, Molly”, he instructed.

She looked at him, embarrassed. Eyes pleading.

“No. Not hear, Not in front of him.” She seemed sad, desperate.

“Didn’t you agree to submit…. completely?”

His hand had not pulled away, but held its position.

“Yes”, she conceded. Surrendering.

I could tell Mistress was aroused, almost broken. She shifted in her seat. I knew her legs were opening. I imagined how his fingers were caressing her. Taking her down. Then I heard her stifled gasp, the sound she makes when she is oh so very close. Her eyes were closed, head pressed against the back of the booth.